Nostalgia for December

For me, December is a month of longing and affection, a memory of the shimmering sunlight reflecting on the dark brown tiled roof, illuminating the veranda filled with the sounds of laughter. I remember the cornfields with their plump, golden ears of corn. The rows of cabbage my mother planted on the dike slope have already sprouted stalks, poised to burst into golden blossoms by the river. I remember my mother's hunched back as she harvested the winter vegetables, loading them onto her carrying poles, her figure swaying precariously in the biting north wind of the afternoon.

December is a month filled with love and family affection, overflowing like the vast, never-ending ocean. The sky is bluer, white clouds drift lazily by, swallows soar with their delicate wings, carrying the arrival of spring. The peach trees are budding with pretty blossoms. The kumquat trees in the garden are laden with fruit, gradually turning yellow. My whole family bustles with joyful laughter as we clean the house. Father carefully wipes the ancestral altar. Mother takes advantage of the gentle sunlight to air out the blankets and sheets in the yard.

For me, the twelfth lunar month also brings the bustling sounds of villagers calling out to each other to tidy up the village roads and alleys. Talented painters are meticulously using paint to write slogans like "Celebrating the Party, celebrating the Spring." Every house displays the national flag. Amidst the vast green expanse of the sky and earth, the winding village roads and small alleys are ablaze with the vibrant red of the red flag with a yellow star, fluttering in the spring breeze, igniting a sense of national pride.

In the twelfth lunar month, I hear the bustling sounds of preparations for Tet (Lunar New Year). In years of crop failure and famine, these sounds are soft and somber. In years of abundant harvests, they are lively and joyful. The squealing of pigs, the calls from villages to gather for pig slaughtering, the scrubbing of pots and pans by the pond, the barking of dogs as villagers return home along the country road shaded by rustling bamboo trees. The familiar, endearing greetings and sincere inquiries. The calls and invitations in the bustling marketplace… all are the most beautiful sounds that come with Tet and the arrival of spring.

December also brings moments of quiet uncertainty, adrift in the boundless flow of the struggle for survival. I sit waiting for the train at the station, yearning for each minute, each hour to quickly return home after a long, exhausting year, burdened with the heavy weight of providing for my family. These are the years I swallowed my tears when I missed the train home to visit my mother on the thirtieth day of the lunar month. I met the sad, distant gaze of someone whose life mirrored mine on the streets where the traffic had thinned. The shadow cast by the fading afternoon sun on the wide street, the image of my elderly mother, her eyes weary from waiting for her distant child to return, then sighing as she drifted into a flood of sorrow.
Missing you.

Suddenly, a love that will forever remain for the beloved month of December stirred in my heart.

Nguyen Tham

Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/dong-nai-cuoi-tuan/202601/thuong-nho-thang-chap-40624db/